Seek Refuge
by coniferae
Summary: Crosspost; rule 63. To save her family from ruin, Martha Doyle is forced to live under a false identity. In the University of Edinburgh she encounters a person who seems to be in a similar situation; unfortunately, their first conversation begins with a death threat.


I know it is hard to believe that anybody would do such a thing, but I had no choice. When the first child my mother had borne turned out to be a girl, it was distressing but bearable. When she got pregnant for the second time, it was a catastrophe for the family. Innes was too small to be of help; in fact, as bitter as it is to admit, he was a burden. He needed to be fed, clothed and educated, and we had no money for all of it. For some years we managed to cut and contrive – that is, until the recent rapid downfall. It was after the bankruptcy of the Lower Nile company that I was forced to do what I did, going against my religion, against my upbringing, against my own principles and wishes.

Even then my mother would not give up on me. Her amazing stoicism and open-mindedness helped me through everything that I was forced to endure, and I simply did not have the heart to refuse when she suggested that I enrol for medical education. I'd never seen myself as a doctor, but I supposed that it would do no worse than anything else. At least that would give me a respectable and solid profession: for, naturally, I was not the most successful stevedore or loader.

At first things didn't go so very well. To my great disappointment I discovered that most of the lecturers were not even mediocre but at times simply dull, and in the light of this fact it was extraordinary that they still managed to maintain such incredible arrogance and sense of complacency. They treated us as if we were no human beings. And all for our own money (the prices were by no means low). Possibly the only tolerable teacher in the entire establishment was Doctor Monroe the botanist, a harmless old man with a trembling head full of the most fantastically silver hair. He rather reminded me of a daisy.

"So, gentlemen," he would mumble with a look of quiet dignity in a tremendous Low Scots, "today we're going to look at the special features of the _Argyranthemum_. Who will tell me if it's dioecious?"

Little he knew, though, that these were not only "gentlemen" he addressed. So far nobody had smelt out anything about my shameful secret, and I had every hope that nobody would; my life in the male society could be considered a success, if an odd one.

It was then that I met her. Doctor Josephine Bell.

Naturally she didn't call herself that, especially considering the fact that she was not an old lady from my neighbourhood but one of the most popular lecturers in the University. Later on I could only envy her genius and her determination; surely I would not be able to achieve anything remotely resembling her position, even given a well-to-do family and a problem-free background. And she was entering the University in the much harder times, back when the mere notion of a woman being anything but a housekeeper plunged even the greatest minds into outrage.

I think I knew her true identity as soon as I saw her walking into the lecture hall – a wiry swift creature with a mane of grey hair. It was by no means obvious, and I would not have guessed in a hundred years, was it not for my experience in hiding my own feminine features.

"Good morning." She turned to us, glaring with her sharp blue eyes. My breath hitched. It cannot be, I thought. It simply cannot be. "My name is Joseph Bell, and I'll be giving you a series of lectures, a lecture each Thursday. Observance and diligence are welcome. Arrogance and idiotic remarks are not. Anyone who likes learning and is determined enough to be a medical man has come to the right place when he came here."

This statement was met with a great ovation.

"Meet Bell," Moorcock the redhead whispered to me with an excited laugh. "He's a performer. And he's awesome."

"Joseph Bell" meanwhile turned to the right, and only then did I notice a petite girl standing next to her. Twelve years-odd, I estimated, looking in the huge black eyes. Her hair was dishevelled yet tied with a yellow ribbon rather awkwardly; her cheeks – flushed, even morbidly so.

"This is Miss Olivia Gemly, she's a daughter of a worker. Her father brought her to me just an hour ago: poor Miss Olivia suffers from fits of coughing, and quite bad they are."

It was, I thought, indecent of her to bring the girl to the lecture. Surely she was already scared and distressed as it is; being in front of a large audience could not possibly help. Besides, I could not fathom what the purpose of this queer escapade was.

"Now tell me," Bell's gaze wandered through the rows, " tell me-"

Suddenly she stumbled across my face and stopped short. With fascination I watched how various emotions bloomed out in her eyes – they were displayed in the minutest mimic details, and I only saw them because I knew what she should have been feeling. There was a slight quaver in her voice when, after an excruciating moment of silence, she spoke again.

"I say," she was stretching her vowels, "what's your name, lad?"

"Arthur Conan Doyle, sir."

"Good. You are new here, aren't you? Do be helpful and tell me, Mister Doyle: what can you say about this girl?"

The question nonplussed me. What could I say about the girl? Did she want me to give my diagnosis right away? But that was exactly why I came there: to learn how to diagnose and cure illnesses. Surely she should have been telling me that, not vice versa?

"Well," I responded hesitantly and cleared my throat, "I- it is probably consumption. And she's quite shaggy."

The auditorium roared with laughter. I knew it to be a good kind of laugh: they weren't mocking me, just my word choice. In those long, painfully formal lessons any informality or, God forbid, sense of humour was cheered joyfully. And yet I still felt uncomfortable, seeing that even Bell herself started smiling.

In the next moment, however, she stopped the revelry as effectively as my remark had started it.

"Silence!" it was surprising to hear her low, lulling voice being so strong and clear. "I suggest that henceforth you pick your words more carefully, Mister Doyle. It is undesirable for your vocabulary to frustrate the lectures."

A suppressed giggle passed over the rows. Bell lightly tapped the wooden table with a pointer and looked at me. Her expression seemed to be that of interest.

"Why do you think it to be a case of tuberculosis?"

I felt that I was in all probability wrong, and further clarifications would only subject me to mockery. But there was no way to avoid answering her question, and so I tried to explain myself with all the possible dignity and logicality.

"The flush on her cheeks is unhealthy, sir. We often see it in patients with c- tuberculosis. Besides, she's very thin. Judging by her hairdo, she does it herself; it is not necessary that she can't handle it properly, perhaps this kind of negligence only started with her illness. It can't be common cold, Sir, because surely the girl of her age in a worker's family is chilled enough to go through a relatively warm Scottish spring."

It felt so wrong to call her "sir" when at the point I was almost doubtless that she was indeed a woman in disguise, same as me. I didn't yet digest the amazement that struck me when I first saw her, and her sharp and swift remarks only added to my inner turmoil.

"Very good, Mister Doyle," she said, studying me intently. I could not believe my ears, and my heart trembled with joy at the thought that I got it right. "But you're wrong."

My fleeting sense of self-satisfaction was shattered, and I was positively unable to understand why she was still looking at me with approval. Perhaps I was interpreting her expression the wrong way. I felt myself blushing helplessly, and I only wished Moorcock would take his eyes off me and find some other object of contemplation.

"You're wrong; and I'm saying that it is common cold for precisely the same reasons you used for proving it was consumption."

Something predatory flickered in her eyes and went away. Later I would learn to interpret it as pure enthusiasm, pure sense of being close to a solution, sort of scientific avidity.

"Shaggy? Yes." This time nobody laughed. "Because it wasn't her who made this particular hairdo, it was her father. Note how it was him who brought her to me, not the mother. Why, you will ask? But because Miss Gemly doesn't have one. Her mother, as sad as it is, recently passed away. Look at her: she's clearly been taken care of for the most part of her life. It is only now that she is not receiving proper treatment, since her father has no idea how to deal with this kind of things. Nobody in his right mind would persistently tie a girl's hair with a ribbon while being unable to do it the right way. There's a patch of black on her sleeve: a sign of mourning, undoubtedly.

Now that's why she, being a worker's daughter, still managed to catch a cold. Her late mother would not allow her to walk in the streets when it was too cold or too rainy, but after her death Olivia was able to spend as much time there as she wanted, possibly also because nobody had time for her in all the bustle about the funeral. The flushing, Mister Doyle, is due to the temperature, which is already beginning to rise."

Doctor Bell squatted down so as to look the girl in the eyes and took her hand.

"I won't be troubling you further, Miss Gemly. It was very kind of you to agree to be a subject to my little examination, and you may leave now. Do try to stay in bed for some time; there is no cure for your illness, but I daresay that you will recover if you eat properly, drink something hot and avoid going out when it's cold and rainy. Tell your father to call me immediately if any problems occur."

Olivia nodded, blushing worse, and hesitantly stepped away. Her eyes darted towards us, as if we were a hostile force that was only kept away from her by Bell's presence.

This extraordinary event was what initially made me admire the Doctor, but at the same time I was not at all sure if her conclusions were right. She didn't even bother to ask the girl whether her mother had truly died or not, and I felt that all the reasoning regarding black patches and the mysterious father resembled fiction rather than real life. The Doctor's decision to bring Olivia Gemly to the lecture hall, as if she was a monkey on a fair, still irritated me greatly. There was no need for all this fuss – the girl could have been sent home two hours ago and been spared the buffoonery.

Everyone else, however, was delighted, and I decided to keep my doubts to myself. The students were leaving the room, chatting merrily and exchanging trifling remarks. I wanted to follow them but suddenly heard Bell's voice calling me back.

"Mister Doyle. I'd ask you to stay for a while."

I froze, feeling agitation take over me. It was likely that she wanted to say something about our now-shared position, and I could only guess as to what it was. I felt that I would be incredibly happy to have her as an ally, but it was an unheard-of step for a teacher to have any real human communication with a student, let alone side with him under any circumstances. On the other hand, we both already made our unheard-of steps, and after that nothing seemed too strange or too inappropriate.

However, when I finally turned to face her, I met with an expression of icy hostility. In the huge empty hall full of brown gloom I suddenly found myself almost frightened by this outstanding woman.

She made a step towards me, and her slender fingers gripped the pointer.

"I could not care less about what you are, Doyle," she said in a deep and monotonous voice, "but if you give me away, I will burn you. I will not hesitate for a second."

Was I not so stunned with her reaction, I would've surely explained myself sooner; but her motion towards me invoked my fear anew, and I backed away, pressing my shoulder-blades against the cold wall. How could she think that?

"Is this quite understandable?"

"But this is a ridiculous notion," I managed, my intonation pleading to the point of sounding pitiful, "it has not occurred to me for a single moment to give you away to anybody, I swear. I thought that your lecture was amazing and that your achievements were amazing."

She contemplated me with something rather resembling surprise. Her fingers on the pointer relaxed visibly.

"I do not need my achievements to be acknowledged in the light of my true identity, Doyle; all the human beings are equally capable of doing intellectual work."

To my relief, she didn't seem so angry anymore, although the look in her eyes was guarded still.

"Let's say that I believe you for now. My warning stays, of course. And you are free to go."

I nodded and sighed deeply. It was a disappointment that she had no wish to consider me a friend, but I supposed now that I couldn't expect more of her. It was quite foolish to try to make her open up to a mere stranger, her own student, what after all the years of concealment and deception. If anything, it was her who should have been the cause of my departure from the University: surely the Rector would've believed her words and not mine.

"Wait, Doyle!"

I turned; she stood there, a thin aged woman dressed in man's clothes, and her eyes were gleaming in the darkness.

"What is your name?"

"Martha, s-" I stopped short, suddenly aware of the ridiculousness of the address.

"It's fine, you can call me "sir". After all, you'll need to get used to seeing me as a man. Martha, eh? Good. I was afraid you would turn out to be an Arthurina or, God forbid, Arthuria."

I could swear that it was a joke, although naturally she didn't smile. I only wished I could ask her about her own name as easily as she asked me about mine; but it wasn't time yet, and I was not sure if there would be a time when we would be able to talk about these matters at all, let alone talk freely.

xxx

It was not until a month later that I had another proper conversation with her. To be honest, even that could not possibly qualify as a dialogue, for it mostly consisted of her cryptic remarks and me following her around in reverential silence. It still stands in my mind as a milestone of our future relationship – because of the unconventional circumstances that it happened under, I presume.

Early in the morning I was walking towards the University, not yet entirely awake. My coat was, I'm afraid, rather worn out at the point, and I was wrapping myself in it, my body disobedient from the crispy cold. Even though I tried not to be late (and failed miserably), my gait was still rather resembling that of a newborn kitten; the pebbles that covered the giant inner yard were an utter pain, since my feet kept slipping on them. Yawning convulsively, I stopped for a moment to shake one of them out of my shoe and suddenly saw Bell. She was standing in the middle of the finely shorn lawn, examining something on the ground.

In the last month she'd been quite cold with me, and, while she did not display any more hostility, she kept showing me that any kind of personal interaction between us held no interest for her whatsoever. Considering all the formalities that stood between us, I found my position extremely awkward and aspired to avoid tete-a-tete situations at all costs. That time was no exception: I quickly put the shoe back on, turned to the main gate and started walking away hurriedly. I might've even succeeded in not attracting her attention, be it not for one especially unfortunate slip. The pebbles crunched loudly, and I felt a hot stab of pain shooting up my leg. Trying not to start whimpering, I bit my lower lip and carefully examined my left ankle. Apparently I contrived to sprain it. That was rather uncalled for; I believed that Professor Macaulay would not take such nonsense for an excuse.

"Sprained your ankle, eh, Doyle?" heard I a voice from behind. It was unexpectedly friendly.

"Why, yes. Good morning," I answered with hesitation, turning to her with a most pitiful limp. She looked animated; her white hair was slightly disarranged by the wind, cheeks touched with faint pink, and her eyes, they had this very peculiar tinge of deep marine blue, if not Persian violet. At that moment it seemed ridiculous to me that anybody would ever take her for a man.

"Let me help."

She walked to me swiftly, and I looked up at her, blinking. Her amicability was puzzling me, although I cannot say that I was not glad.

"It is very kind of you, but I'm afraid I'm going to miss the classes." I sighed, playing with the thought of getting some rest instead of listening to Macaulay's rumbling. "Professor Macaulay will be furious."

To my great surprise, Bell waved my objections off. "Nonsense; I will tell him that I gave you an urgent errand. If you don't get any help in the next half an hour, it will get swollen, and you will be in no condition as a worker. Surely you yourself know it well."

I stared at her, dumbfounded, and her thin lips seemed to twist into a smile. She stretched a hand towards me, the wind fluttering the white lace on her cuffs. "Here, Doyle-" the sentence was left hanging, as if she expected me to figure the rest out myself.

For a moment I contemplated her hand then grabbed it, staggering to my feet. With unexpected strength she pulled me closer and took me by the arm. Her wiry fingers almost hurt me – I've always had a very fine and pale skin, and I suspected that there would be a bruise left on it from her grip. In any case, I was at last supported by something and could walk without any great pain.

"How could you possibly know that I work?" Amazed, I hobbled beside her, doing my best to keep up with her pace. To her credit, she was clearly restraining herself, moving slower and gentler than usual.

"Simple," Bell responded cheerfully, "your skin gives you away. It is naturally very fine, and of course working in the port could not fail to make your hands callous. You used to sew, as I see from this cut on your index finger; as an experienced seamstress, you do not prick yourself with needles, but nobody's spared an occasional cut from a rough thread. Even putting all this aside, your family is a poor one, and I see no reason whatsoever for your mother to send you to the University and support your deception if you're not the one who maintains the living of the other members – your younger brother in particular."

Of course I'd already seen her do this to Olivia Gemly and a number of other patients, but such strikingly, depressingly accurate observations on my own personal life instantly made me lose a major part of my cheer. It was especially wounding that she recounted them in a manner suggesting that she hardly cared if she was invading my privacy.

Apparently she expected me to make further inquiries as to her method of deduction, because there was an awkward silence when no questions from me followed. We entered a chamber on the ground floor – a murky place saturated with the smell of carbolic acid. Bell carefully seated me on the long bench that stretched along the wall and kneeled in front of me. For some moments I contemplated the bookshelves behind her back, but then I felt that it was becoming indecent and finally looked at her. Then another surprise followed; for, instead of smiling with the same heartless amusement or turning aside, she was looking me straight in the eyes very seriously. I froze, staring at the dim gleams on her cornea. The rooms were painfully quiet.

"You must understand," she said finally, "that I did not mean to hurt your feelings. I was simply trying to convey the logic of my reasoning to you; and I was perhaps not so very attentive to the fact that this matter concerns your personal life."

I'm afraid I blushed at that. It was so much more than I expected that I almost felt myself the guilty party.

"Ah, it's nothing really, Doctor Bell," I responded in a hurried way; to my further dismay, she simply nodded and rose, looking for her medical bag.

However, something else on the big table in the middle of the room caught her attention instead. She stepped towards it, examined the object critically and returned to me with a jar of something suspiciously waxen. I'd never seen anything like that before, and I almost backed away when it became clear that she was going to apply the substance to my sprained leg. Bell made a reassuring gesture, spreading her pale hands with it.

"Don't be childish, Doyle. It is a simple heating ointment. I'm not going to hurt you in any way."

Ashamed, I bore the procedure submissively. Indeed it was not very painful – perhaps even pleasant, since I'd liked the sensation of her hands massaging my ankle and the comforting warmth that shrouded it the instance the ointment was applied. The air suddenly smelt sharply with pepper, honey and some other tasty substance – cinnamon, perhaps? Or was it yeast?

"What was it that you were looking at, there in the yard?" I asked, trying to make amends for my faux pas.

"A dead cat."

Twenty minutes ago I would've been bombarding her with strange looks and questions, but then I already knew better.

"What for?" I tried carefully.

Bell shot me a glance, and I am not sure of it, but I think that she considered if I was trustworthy enough. She was now sitting on the chair on the opposite, her fingers locked under her chin. After some time she frowned, and I was afraid that she would simply throw me out, deciding that I did not deserve her confidence; but then she sighed and gestured vaguely, clearing her throat.

"I think she was poisoned you see."

Well, that certainly didn't look too serious to my mind. Hundreds of cats in Edinburgh found their end in exactly the same way, and I could not imagine why Bell would be interested in this particular cat – unless, of course, she was an eccentric cat lady, which I thought extremely unlikely.

She obviously saw what I was thinking about, and irritation reflected on her lively features.

"You could've guessed yourself. She is the local cat, and just about the only food she used to eat were the leftovers from the University kitchen."

Agitated, I jumped up, forgetting about my bad leg. It was lucky that she, with her speed of reaction, sprang to her feet at the same time and caught me, preventing me from falling on the floor.

"Now watch out, Doyle! Why do you need to be careless like this?"

I clung to her arm for balance, my breath frequenting.

"Why do you sit here treating me if there's poison in the kitchen? You should've warned them long ago!"

"Do calm down; they do not serve breakfast until ten o'clock in the morning. We have almost an hour left."

"...We?"

Bell narrowed her eyes.

"I'll give you my cane. You don't mind, do you? After all, you owe me something for being spared Doctor Macaulay's lecture."

Of course I was perfectly happy with that. If anything, she was indebting me further with providing an opportunity to spend some time in her company rather than relieving me of my gratitude. Unable to hide my delight, I laughed.

"Oh, no. No, I don't mind at all. Thank you, Doctor."

Oddly enough, during my first month in the University I'd never been anywhere near the kitchen. When I contemplate it from an adult's point of view, it doesn't seem strange, but that was perhaps the first occasion which made me realise that my childhood was left behind. As a child I liked to explore the city, all the places mysterious, filthy, dark, dangerous. It is indeed a wonder that I didn't get myself killed or raped. We all ran that risk, I suppose – we the street Arabs.

The silver top of Bell's cane was warm to touch even as she handed it to me; I had a vague feeling that it wasn't quite normal for silver – it was as if the cane was a living creature rather than an object. The handle fitted in my hand nicely, though, and I disregarded those odd thoughts, limping after her as quickly as my injury would allow.

She opened the greenish peeled door without knocking, and we were washed over by the kitchen smells. Something baked, something fried, something boiled, something – burnt? Was it the smell of burning meat? – and above all this pandemonium there thundered the voice of an incredibly gaunt and ominous cook. As unlikely as it was, she looked taller than Bell.

"Missis Meikle!" my companion shouted. She outvoiced the noise without any apparent effort, and I thought for a moment that she would make a great chorister.

Missis Meikle turned to us, her eyes sharp and moist and black, like poisonous berries. Her expression softened, though, when she saw that it was a University professor entering her possessions, not some contemptible shopkeeper or, God forbid, a pedlar.

"Good morning, sir," said she. Bell nodded back then bent over to her and whispered something energetically. The cook paled, fear and confusion reflecting on her features.

"Please tell them to put everything together," Bell's tone was grave. "It is very important. Not a single bite must leave the kitchen."

She looked crushed.

"But the spices? The salt? The flour?"

"Everything."

My head was swimming from the sheer amount of noises and smells, and I was sweating under my autumn coat; however, this caught my attention. The Doctor's demand seemed to me rather unwise.

Another order exploded above our heads like a steamship whistle.

"Why would you include flour and salt and sugar?" I whispered, turning to her. In irritation I brushed back the damp hair locks that kept sticking to my flushed cheeks. They were already too long – I needed to have them cut before my resemblance to a woman would become obvious. Bell gave me a curious look.

"You can't imagine how many poisonous substances exist in a form of fine white powder. Aconite, arsenic, potassium cyanide – ah, there are thousands of them, Doyle. I need to know what killed that poor creature there in the yard, then I'll know what to look for..."

The confidence that I could hear so clearly in her voice confused and puzzled me. How could she know so much about poisons? What was her interest in the matter?

"But isn't it the business for the police?" I asked finally with obvious incredulity. Missis Meikle's voice rumbled some more, and Bell winced as though the only reason she hadn't covered her ears with her hands yet was courtesy.

"No. No, Doyle, let's not talk about it now. I will explain it to you later. Now just follow me and try to make yourself helpful... Preferably not by asking questions about the nature of my interest in this case. Missis Meikle!"

Cleaving the fumes of burning fat and baking raspberry pie, she walked quickly through the kitchen towards the spice shelves. The cook followed her with servility.

"Yes, Doctor Bell?"

So she knew Bell's name. How very, very odd. Very odd indeed.

The Doctor ran her fingers over the row of fragrant parcels and shiny tin boxes, opened a couple of them, sniffed at the contents with suspicion. Sighed.

"Who is your supplier? Have you changed him recently?"

"No, sir, not at all. Mister Jennings of Picardy. We work with him for the last twenty years, he's a very respectable gentleman.

There was a cloud of cinnamon as Bell put the open box back with a loud clank, and I went into a fit of violent sneezing.

"Any new spices? Perhaps this Mister Jennings offered you something for a change?" she asked, paying no attention to me. I gave her an angry look and wiped off tears mixed up with sweat. My fingers were sliding off the knob of her cane.

"No? I see. Nothing for us here then. I'd be much obliged if you wrote down the address... Yes, good, thank you very much. What do you usually give to the cat? What do you mean, "everything really"? Surely it didn't eat raspberry and plums? No, no, that's quite correct."

Missis Meikle suddenly looked anxious. Her spidery fingers gripped the fabric of the apron, staining it with floury-white and juicy-red.

"What happened to Bettie?" demanded she. Bell contemplated her for a moment.

"I'm afraid she died today. My condolences, Missis Meikle."

Afterwards I could not decide whether this line was meant to be a genuine display of sympathy or a subtle mockery, but the cook's face fell. It was painful to see how she tried to put herself together and how her own mouth seemed to be against her, tearing apart like a bad stitch. I was staring at her hazily, when a firm hand caught me by the shoulder and practically pulled me out of the kitchen and into the murderous cold and freshness of the open yard.

I stood still, filling my weary lungs with pure air. Soon, I knew, I would be shivering unstoppably, wet and miserable on that dreary day. Ahead of me lay five hours of lectures, and now, after the kitchen, with my injured leg, that prospect felt Golgothian. I must admit, though, that my ankle didn't hurt all that badly anymore; Bell's ointment was truly a wonder.

"Doctor," I called in a hoarse voice. She neither answered nor turned to me, but I knew she was listening. "Doctor, what if it was not the kitchen food?"

"What then?" she asked sharply.

"What if it was the rat poison? Or a plant? They eat plants, now don't they?"

Her steps were amazingly measured, and her feet sure didn't slip even on the crunchy pebbles; I'd heard, however, a hitch in that metronome-like tune – for she was lame. She walked towards the small lifeless body, took it and lifted with strange gentleness. Turning to her, I could not help but wonder whether it was the kind of care usually applied to scientific specimens or the respect towards poor Missis Meikle; or respect for the dead, even if that dead was only a small reddish feline.

"That I shall find out and they undoubtedly do." Bell took the cat with both hands, studying its muzzle. "I do not believe that my colleagues will be overly offended even if there's no poison in the kitchen. They wouldn't like to run this risk."

At first I did not understand why I felt my heart growing heavy at her answer. Then I knew; she was using "I" again, not "we" as she did earlier that morning. It was a surprise for me that such things affected me at all, but apparently in some inexplicable way I'd been fond of her, even despite the fact that we hardly spoke to each other. No, "fond" was the wrong word; I admired her, respected her, wanted to be her like. Her unexpected friendliness that day made me believe that something had changed between us, but then that "I" shattered my hopes, and even now I remember the sense of bitter disappointment and dejection washing over me as I stood in the bleak and cold inner yard, trying to avoid her eyes.

She walked over to me, I heard that. Then I saw her black leather boots. They had chamfered toes, and there were slivers of ice on the right side of the left one.

"You wondered earlier; I'm a forensic expert, Doyle," said she. I could not help but look up at her in wonder; and there was a smile of amazement blossoming on my lips even against my will.

"This is most extraordinary," said I almost in a whisper. She smiled back, but it was a guilty smile.

Stifling my reaction hurriedly, in an awkward gesture I offered her the cane and muttered a "thank you", or at least something meant to express gratitude. Bell nodded and accepted it then suddenly started swirling it in the air, looking at me still.

"I would be grateful if you wouldn't tell anyone. And try not to walk too much, will you?"

Without waiting for my answer, she turned on her heels and walked away, a dead cat in one hand, a silver-topped cane in the other.

xxx

The University buzzed like a beehive stirred up by a frolicsome child. Rumours spread with incredible quickness. We all were agitated and confused, and I, due to my position undoubtedly, could hardly think of anything else. New enemies were everywhere, and so were new friends; but the number of enemies was much greater. Thankfully, Moorcock seemed to belong to the camp of the reasonable. I found that I started to consider him something of a friend, as much as I could befriend somebody while pretending to be a person I never was.

Women were to join us.

Of course I'd been thinking about Bell even more than usual, but she seemed to be avoiding me again. She'd also been very cautious in voicing her opinion on the matter – in fact, the only perspicuous information as to her stand came from O'Grianna the Irishman, who claimed to hear her saying something along the lines of "well, I can see no great harm in that".

Soon it became known that teachers were free to choose whether to allow women in their classes or not. This roused the arguments further; to my delight, the majority of the lecturers chose to accept the new students, and Bell was amongst them.

Although everyone was tense and we hardly knew what to expect, the balance of forces seemed to be reassuring. If somebody had asked me then what would happen next, I would've probably said that, while some problems and misunderstandings would certainly ensue, everyone would get accustomed to the new situation soon enough and that bloodless revolution would be successfully completed.

Little I knew of what was to come. Centuries worth of traditions, religion and common sense stereotypes would not allow that day to be anything but disastrous.

The first ominous sign was the crowd that gathered in front of the main gates on the day when they were to attend the lectures for the first time. Normally in the morning everyone would go straight to the classes – it was no great pleasure to stick around outside, sleepy and sluggish; and I was taken aback upon seeing that extraordinary assemblage, taken aback and frightened. Obviously it wasn't going to end well. Trying to make them see reason would be sheer lunacy, and I simply stood in the last rows, trembling slightly from agitation.

These were not only the opponents of emancipation that came there. With some relief I spotted Llewellyn, Honey, O'Grianna, Monroe and Moorcock standing in front of me; there probably were more, unknown to me or unseen from my position.

I forced my way forward and tugged at Moorcock's sleeve. He turned and smiled broadly at me.

"Doyle! Didn't expect to see you here. You're always late for the classes."

Although I was indeed smiling back, the lump of anxiety in my chest bloated. His tone would've been much more appropriate if we stood there in anticipation of some grand performance rather than the arrival of a pitiful handful of adolescent females.

"For God's sake, what's going on?"

He shrugged.

"I'm not entirely sure. They gathered here half an hour ago, and we thought that it would not be useless to keep an eye on them."

That was bad, very bad. I suspected strongly that "they" had some plan as to the treatment of our new classmates, and I was perfectly sure that that plan would not be to my liking.

And this time, unfortunately, I was not mistaken.

When I just wanted to continue my conversation with Moorcock, a muffled murmur swept through the mob like a great wave on the sea surface. Everyone was suddenly looking to the right; I stood on tiptoe and could make out a small group of girls coming our way. Men around me kept strangely quiet, and I almost thought that everything would go smoothly, while, when the girls approached the first rows of the crowd, there was a hooting outcry, and the group was bombarded with rotten eggs. Through the shroud of rage I felt the spreading smell of hydrogen sulphide, and, before I knew it, everyone was fighting with everyone, for of course Moorcock and O'Grianna rushed to women's help. I remember hitting somebody square in the teeth, and the terrified gaze of Sophie Jex-Blake, the women's leader; I'm also pretty sure that this scuffle was the reason why I'd been walking with a shiner for almost two weeks afterwards.

I could swear that at some point among the rotten eggs and other rubbish that was being thrown at women I noticed stones. Students' shouts still ring in my ears as I recall that day. "Whores!" they yelled, "go back to your kitchens! You're an abomination of mankind!"

Eventually the teachers that came out, worried by the shouts outside, dispersed us and escorted the women to the lecture halls. Some of the ringleaders were caught; among them, as I discovered with uneasiness, were Moorcock and Honey. I, in my turn, managed to slip out of the roundup and ran away towards Bell's room.

What I hoped to accomplish by that I do not know. The action was rather instinctive than conscious; Bell was the person whose authority meant for me more than the opinions of everyone else combined, and, despite the fact that things hadn't been going so very well between us, I believed that she would be willing and able to help.

She was sitting beside her table writing something, her white hair ablaze from the sun, when I stormed into the chamber. Her eyes flew wide open; almost instantly she sprang to her feet and approached me, studying my bruised face and torn clothes. Indeed only now did I realise what a sorry sight I was – there hardly was a part of my outfit left intact, and the lapels of my long-suffering autumn coat hung on a couple of threads.

"I say," she murmured in an unsteady voice, "any serious injuries, Doyle?"

"No... I believe not."

Bell was staring at me for some moments then spoke quietly.

"Why is it that you came to me?"

I didn't know that myself. But such an explanation would hardly do – besides, I felt an overwhelming need for her help, any kind of help she could provide.

"You must help them," I said with strange audacity. It was foolish to expect her to agree, but I'm afraid I was deaf to the voice of reason.

Her gaze was suddenly cold and sharp, and, be I a little more rational, I would've realised that my cause was lost.

"And how, in your opinion, could I help them?"

"There were _stones_. If teachers do not put an end to this ignominy, it is only going to escalate. Your authority-"

"My _authority_? What do you think I can do with it, try to persuade Macaulay to accept them in his classes? Or do you expect me to turn myself in to support the emancipist movement? This will produce a scandal the scale of which you, Doyle, cannot imagine. If anything, it will only sink them further."

Unexpectedly she was once again at her angriest, just as she was the day we first met. Then, however, we didn't know a thing about each other; now we shared something that could've been called a relationship if it wasn't so painfully one-sided.

Perhaps it was that familiar touch of fear that finally made me feel so wasted. I was hugging myself helplessly, trembling, and the only thing I wanted was to curl up on the floor and let my exhaustion put me to sleep. Of course that urge was rather ridiculous (who the devil even sleeps on the floor?), but so was the entire situation we found ourselves in.

I knew she was right and what she told me was reasonable; but it was no consolation.

"Moorcock and Honey were caught," I muttered, "and I'm doubtless somebody will tell them about O'Grianna. We all run a risk of being expelled."

Suddenly she stepped towards me and froze, as if restraining herself from moving further. I lifted my eyes at her and saw how her expression softened visibly – because of my words or because of how pathetic I looked I could not understand.

"Do not worry about that, Doyle: if there's anything I can do, it is prevent them from imposing sanctions on you." Apparently remembering her anger, she tossed her head in a somewhat childish manner. "You shall not be expecting anything else from me, though. As much as I may want to, I cannot protect them from their own ilk. The University will have either to get accustomed to the situation or to renounce the initiative. Let us hope that it will be the former rather than the latter..."

"But is it right for us to stand aside? I mean-"

"You mean, because we're women, too?" It was the first time she said it aloud, I noted mentally. "No. It is not a good reason to act like idiots. If we've got advantages, it doesn't mean we should throw them away; it means that we should use them. As much as I can help, I will. So shall you."

I smiled faintly and nodded.

"You're right, I suppose. I'm... sorry I disturbed you. I shouldn't have come."

"No, it is quite all right." She waved towards the chair. "Do sit down, though. Something tells me that your lectures are cancelled anyway."

By this time I got accustomed to her manner of making odd remarks with the most inscrutable face; she had what they call "pawky Scottish sense of humour", and I found myself liking it, as I did with almost everything else about her.

I plopped on the chair, stifling a yawn. It was cold there, and it didn't really help to keep me awake.

"What's about that cat of yours?"

"An emetic," Bell sat on the opposite, stretching her arms across the table as though she wanted to take me by the hands. "And a highly toxic one. The flour, salt and sugar all contained tremendous amounts of copper sulphate."

I stared at her, wide-eyed, and whistled quietly.

"Why, that could've killed half of the University before anybody would know."

"Precisely. That's why I went to that Jennings... but he appeared to know nothing of the matter, and he was completely terrified when I told him what he'd been selling to us. Then I traced the supplies up until the last warehouse where they'd still been together, and, when I started questioning them, the little son of the storekeeper admitted in tears that it was he who put the thing in there."

"A prank gone bad, then."

She shook her head.

"I haven't believed it for a single moment. There's something very odd about a small boy pulling a prank on the people he'd never known and would never see. Surely he'd like to see the results of his efforts? That's not to mention that it is quite difficult to buy a sufficient amount of copper sulphate nowadays... he himself told me that they bought it in a local pharmacy. I went there; it appears that he did not. Nobody bought any bluestone from them in the last two months."

Overwhelmed, I was watching her every movement.

"But why would he lie?" I cried, "It brings him nothing but harm! And where the emetic came from, if it was not his doing?"

"My questions exactly, Doyle. And that I was going to find out... when this whole," Bell made a vague gesture, "women thing happened."

I expected her to stop there, but apparently she wasn't done yet. Now she stood up again and was pacing back and forth in front of me, which was getting on my nerves; her sharp movements, the contrast of the dark lavender of her waistcoat and the lustrous white of the shirt, the swift glares of blue eyes produced a kind of ugly kaleidoscope, and it made my eyes ache. I turned aside to avoid looking at her.

"It is not perhaps the best time for this..." she began in an oddly hesitant voice, "but I wondered... I wondered if you'd agree to become my clerk, Doyle."

Hardly believing my ears, I stared at her in utter astonishment. She stopped and was looking at me back, very still and serious. Only ten minutes ago we were having a bitter argument; now it seemed that she forgot my impudence altogether, and there was not a trace of anger in her intonation. Truly she was an extraordinary creature, and I did not believe that I would ever understand her fully.

"If I'm to become your clerk," it appeared that my throat was parched, "I... I think I need to know your name."

For a moment we both were motionless, then she swiftly walked closer and smiled radiantly. I watched her spellbound. That smile was a clear reflection of something I'd never seen in her before, and I discovered that this, whatever it was, was making me happy.

"Josephine Edith Bell," said she, stretching a hand towards me, quite like she did the day I sprained my ankle, "others know me as Joseph Emory Bell. And your middle name is?"

"Martha Katherine Doyle. Alias Arthur Conan Doyle," and I shook her hand energetically. It was firm, thin and very warm.

xxx

The sky was a delicate shade of citrine yellow when we embarked on the journey to a small village near Stirling. The sun did not yet rise fully, and upon lifting one's head one could see how the yellow turned hesitantly into green and then into impossible, deepest blue of the retreating night. I only aspired to refrain from jumping as I followed Bell to Murrayfield where a carriage awaited us (now it seems unthinkable, but back then there were no trains from Waverley towards Stirling – and even so, no trains stopped in the small places like Inglewood, the village we were heading to), for I was full of nervous joy induced by the sunny chill of the weather, the significance of our mission and, above all, Bell's own presence.

She was a bundle of energy – everything in her movements spoke of enthusiasm seeking to express itself, although her face remained perfectly calm and her lips seemed to be relaxed in a sort of indifferent half-smile. I wished I could speak to her; but I was afraid to be a nuisance, and by now I knew that the outward indifference was no indication of what was going on in her restless mind. Likely she was contemplating the matter still, calculating what would be the best course of actions.

And so I simply curled up on the opposite, taking out a book I'd been meaning to read long ago – _Histoire du chevalier des Grieux et de Manon Lescaut_. I hadn't been a bookworm (for naturally I had more urgent matters at hand – I could allow myself neither escapism nor much leisure time), but I thought literature a lovely invention of the human kind, and, admittedly, the characters' joys and sorrows often succeeded in overshadowing my own endless problems.

It was dark inside, which made reading a pain; besides, the jolting irritated me, and I knew that by the end of the journey I would be suffering from the worst kind of travel sickness. Therefore, although the story appeared to be enthralling, I eventually gave up and was simply staring into the window, contemplating with idle curiosity the endless cornfields and pine groves.

"Too many pines," Bell murmured suddenly, and I dropped the book.

"I beg your pardon?"

She reached for the poor Manon Lescaut and gave it back to me, handling it with some odd respect, as if it was something very private and not a century-old French psychological novel. I later discovered that she cared little for fiction but contrived to combine it with a considerable amount of erudition, which I personally found puzzling. I guess it was not – how shall I say? – not her focus, perhaps. As any keen mind, she was fascinated by the cold aesthetics of classical prose and poetry and could recognise just about any quote she encountered, but her objective in reading in general was information rather than pleasure. For the Method to work in the most agreeable way she needed to be aware of the surrounding cultural context – and literature was, undoubtedly, a part of it, at least so far as it concerned people of the higher class.

Respect for the classical education also must have, I think, played some role, but it was only a part of her general respect for the yestertide. That was something we often didn't share. I couldn't bring myself to see anything in history but pain and death and fear, and I found myself repulsed by many stereotypes and traditions that people around me still adhered to since the times past.

"Too many pines. And cornfields. See, Doyle, pines only grow in a very dry soil, which is not something characteristic for our home Lowlands... lands around Edinburgh tend to be marshy. If you ever see a man who came from the province on a rainy day and didn't ruin his boots and trousers, he's probably from somewhere near Stirling." The carriage slowed down, and Bell looked into the window briefly. "Ah, here we go."

She opened the door, jumped down, shaking herself slightly, and used her cane as a steering lever to turn back to the coachman.

"Have it, laddie," I followed a bright silvery coin with my eyes as it flew and was caught by the boy. She sure had a faultless eye. I imagined she would've been good at that game of ours that required one to catch a blackberry with one's mouth. I wondered if she'd ever tried it. It seemed impossible to imagine that Bell was once a child – a black-haired merry girl, perhaps? Or was she merry? And when did her deception start – and what for?

The messy countryside road unfolded before our eyes and rather abruptly stuck into a small village surrounded by large dreamy poplars – that was, I presumed, Inglewood. Despite the messiness, the soil under our feet was indeed exceptionally dry; it seemed to consist mostly of colourless sand.

"Our object is to find the storekeeper's son, James MacBride... or, well, Jimmy-the-Freckle, that's what they call him. All's right? Didn't forget your Manon Lescaut? No? Jolly good."

The house in question resembled old southern cottages – a foam white building made of clay and thatch. These were good for hot and sunny weather ("physics, Arthur Doyle, are you unable to learn it? Sometimes I'm just tempted to give up on you"), and I thought it odd that one of them chanced to get so far north.

It was cool inside, and the air smelt strongly with cold lime. A decrepit dog wheezed at us instead of barking – apparently because the floor was covered with a thick layer of white chalky dust that stirred at the slightest movement. Bell looked around, evidently uncomfortable, scanning the sooty pans and pots with her attentive gaze. I suspected that nobody was home.

"That would be devilishly unfortunate," she muttered, guessing my thoughts. "Although the countryside is pleasant enough... at least we won't be stuck in a miserable place like Gladsmuir in a miserable weather. Happens too often in our profession, if you ask me. Hey, is anybody home?"

These last words, unlike the rest of her remarks, were spoken loudly and in the most tremendous Highland accent. I gave her a confused look. From what I knew of Bell, I could conclude that she was a Lowlander coming from a family of Lowlanders; and I could see no reason for her to pretend otherwise, not in those circumstances. Surely it would be justified if we were in a house of some inhabitant of, say, Inverness, but there, near Stirling? It was rather well done, though. I'd swear that it was her natural brogue, would I not know better.

Suddenly a small white door in the back of the room, which I didn't notice before, opened. An equally small and white old gentleman emerged from it and stared at Bell expectantly, his eyes pinkish and strikingly resembling those of a rabbit.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said in a voice weak and rasping. "Can I be of any help?"

"Do you by any chance know where Jimmy is?"

The old man contemplated the request, smacking his lips slowly.

"Jimmy... You mean Jimmy-the-Freckle, my grandson? Why, he must be somewhere in the backyard. I sent him to feed the chickens." He stopped and stared vacantly at something between him and Bell. The pause was dragging on for a good minute when she finally coughed and waved her hand hesitantly.

"Perhaps you could call him, eh?"

Our odd host jumped, widening his small eyes. It was as if he just realized that there was somebody in the room apart from him himself.

"Call him? I, uh, sure... wait a wee bit."

With some difficulty he turned around and hobbled back to the white door, leaning on an imaginary crutch.

"Jimmy!" he bleated, opening it. "Jim!"

The poor creature seemed to be so otherworldly that for a moment I was sure that there would be no Jimmy coming to join us. I had to remind myself that at least Bell saw the boy, and there was no doubt in Bell's sound judgement.

And indeed after some moments I heard light running footsteps, and then chickens cackling; I could picture vividly how Jimmy stormed in their midst like he would storm into the water, causing a commotion among the hens. The splashing of his bare feet came closer; then he stopped near the door in apparent hesitation. The old man, seeming to forget our presence altogether, doddered away.

"Come in, Jim," said Bell almost warmly, and this time her pronunciation was distinctly Lowland, even grotesquely so. She sure didn't speak like this on a daily basis – certainly not in my presence. Perplexed, I watched her without a word. So far her schemes were proving successful, and I was not going to be the one to spoil her game.

A tremendously freckled muzzle pushed through into the room, and the rest followed, making up a little skinny lad. I blinked upon seeing his gap-toothed mouth slid apart in a broad cunning smile. That mouth was so oddly big and the lips were so plump that, when he smiled, he looked like an ugly dwarf rather than a child. It didn't make him look menacing or eerie; "pitiful" was the epithet I'd use, however nonplussing the view was.

That time Bell remained bolt upright when she spoke to him, in rich Low Scots still.

"James," she said, "I need you to answer a question, and I need you to be honest to God."

The boy nodded seriously, sticking his hands into his pockets.

"Why exactly did you lie to me the first time I met you?"

A shadow crossed his lively face, and he strained visibly, like a small animal pricked with something sharp; but, before he could back away, Bell quite adroitly caught him by the ear.

"Who was the man that made you do it? What did he give you?"

"You're too quick, sir," complained Jimmy, yet I could catch a glimpse of curiosity in his expression. "Why, do you know that it was a man? Could've been a lass, you know."

As extraordinary as it is, the Doctor seemed to pale.

"Was it indeed?"

"Let go of my ear!"

That she did, taking him instead by the shoulders. I knew that her grip could be steely, and I shuddered upon seeing her knuckles whiten. The poor lad must've been bruised already. Indeed he winced, and she loosened her clutch on him, muttering something guiltily.

"No, no," said the boy in a hurried manner, "no, 'twasn't a lass. Just a young gentleman. He was generous, gave me a lot of money, sir."

Bell relaxed, and a corner of her mouth curled up in a faint half-smile. Not that I saw any good reasons to smile in that situation, but I kept my thoughts to myself.

"How much did he give?"

"Five shillings, sir."

"Now don't lie; it's no good. Lying is a sin."

"...A sovereign, sir."

She whistled, evidently unable to contain her surprise.

"Why, that's heaps of sweets!"

I saw clearly that he was afraid she would demand the money from him, for he was frowning at her, even though her clear sharp gaze rested on his face, silencing any possible objections.

At the point I forgot all about the lad's grandfather, and a sound from behind made me flinch. He seemed disturbed by the way Bell treated his Jimmy, and he was now waving his hands in front of him in great uneasiness, as though hoping to catch the eluding words. The Doctor shot him a glance and sighed.

"Pray do calm him down, Doyle. I don't need a patient here. As to you, Jimmy... you can keep the sovereign, or whatever remains of it, to yourself. That's your business entirely and your money, after all."

I walked quickly towards the man and started talking to him, trying to sound as soothing as I could; apparently, by doing this I employed one of my more womanly intonations, since he burst out in a tinkling laughter.

"Why, you do sound like a lass, sonny!"

Surprisingly, the touch of alarm I experienced was only brief – perhaps because the old man looked as harmless as a human being could possibly be. I nodded and smiled at him, listening with half an ear to the conversation behind my back.

"...he was tall, sir, and he looked like a moth, I mean his ears. And his hair was very red. The boys teased him when he walked through, they were shouting all this stuff about redheads, how they have no soul and are witch's children. I don't agree, sir, if you ask me. And he was wearing a cap and that odd thingy with no sleeves. Why would anyone wear these? Surely God had something in mind when he gave arms to people?"

xxx

"...Christ," Bell rubbed her forehead wearily. "How do they maintain their living? I wonder..." but then she abruptly trailed off, and the only thing left for me was to stare at the ruthlessly blue sky, pale from the intense sunshine. Even the pines and the corn seemed to be cast down by the sheer power of the light. In that spring it was truly odd – a marvel, that frying pan of a day.

I was going to get a lot of freckles. Most definitely.

"And do try not to sympathize with people too much. It appears that tender emotions make you sound feminine."

For a moment I was weighing up what was more likely: that she was smiling or that she looked entirely serious. Frankly, the inscrutableness of her tone left no doubts that it was the latter. Sighing, I turned to her and discovered that of course it was the former.

"It could've indeed been a woman, you know," continued the Doctor with reverie. I shrugged.

"So what's the big deal?"

Normally she would display irritation whenever I kept asking questions about something I was capable of figuring out myself, but that time she only shivered, as if cold, and rubbed her hands.

"Ah, don't you see. That would be sheer disaster."

It clicked then; the University, the women, the crime, Jimmy. Clear. Suddenly I was shivering no worse.

"But... what would've you done?"

Compressing her thin lips, she shook her head. Her expression was almost vulnerable.

"I don't know. No, no, of course... I would've handed her in to the police... No doubt."

"A "between two evils" situation then."

"There are a lot of these in my trade. You should probably get accustomed."

xxx

I threw the door open, barging into the house with a somewhat wild air. It is, I suppose, a widely known fact that after being in a dusky room sunlight blinds; but it also works very well the other way – after the sunny streets the semidarkness of our flat splashed into my eyes like a liquid paint, and for a moment the only thing I could see was the wall of pure violet.

From somewhere behind this wall came the pattering footsteps, and Innes threw himself at me, hanging on my waist. Still half-blind, I blinked, groping for his shoulders, and hugged him tightly.

"Martha," he was muttering happily, "Martha, it's so good to see you here! We didn't expect you to come until seven o'clock."

"Ay, luckily, it wasn't that long. I'm terribly tired, though... don't we have anything to eat?"

I carefully set myself free and walked farther into the dusk. The air smelt with clay, wood and something turned sour (although we most certainly could not allow ourselves a luxury of letting the food get spoilt). Innes minced along behind me, clutching at my shirt.

"Martha, is it you?" She was descending the stairs, her nightgown twining around her moulded calves. Her hair, though thinning and touched with frost, trailed down her shoulders and forearms in fragile, vaguely copper waves. Concerned, I looked up at her.

"Oh? Were you already sleeping? I'm sorry to wake you up."

She stumbled slightly and clung to the antique handrail. I made a motion to support her, but Innes wouldn't let me go; and his grip turned out to be oddly strong for a six-year-old.

"No worries, I'm fine. Just felt a bit... sick earlier. We must have... something left. Some herb, that is. There must be a bit of cold stew in the kitchen; give it to Innes as well, would you?"

"Ay, sure. I'm positive that there's mint somewhere, I dried up a lot of it this summer. Brew it; it's a great somnifacient."

There was the nasty flu circulating in the town, and I was worried for her. Would she happen to fall ill, I would almost certainly be forced to drop either my University studies or my work; but the latter would've left us starving, while the former would have deprived me of any prospects. Dropping the University meant no stable future job, no hope, no Moorcock, no Bell. I preferred not to think of this possibility at all.

I cast a glance at her – she smiled back faintly – and turned to Innes.

"Hey, how about some stew? Right? Let's go then."

Our mother wasn't exactly the best cook on Picardy, but she used to be quite good, and, even weakened by her absent-mindedness and lethargy, she contrived to provide us with decent meals, something I was immensely grateful for. It was a great relief to not be forced to cook after the double strain of the University and my work.

That evening, however, too many thoughts bothered me – I barely felt the taste of the food I was swallowing; for some reason I ate hurriedly, although of course there was nothing for me to be late for, if I didn't count stretching myself on the bed upstairs.

"Martha," Innes called hesitantly, and I flinched, focusing my gaze on him. There was a bit of stew on his chubby cheek. "Who've you been with? You've talked about him to our mother, his name is Bell, yes?"

I pecked at the remaining stew with my spoon and gave him a hazy smile.

"Ah, yes. Doctor Joseph Bell. I work as his clerk now."

"Is he a good man?"

"Yes," I answered almost without thinking. Odd thing, I didn't know if I would've said the same thing if somebody asked me a couple of days before. Bell certainly didn't look an average "good person" to me. In fact, in regards to morality some of her qualities plunged me into unpleasant confusion.

"Eh, good for you." He seemed to lose interest in Bell's personality, rather to my relief. I wasn't sure if I was allowed to reveal her secret to anybody, be it my little brother or God up in Heaven, but talking to Innes about her as if she was nothing but one of my many teachers felt terribly awkward.

"You know," he stabbed the table with the handle of his spoon and grinned, "I keep seeing these odd dreams. But they're good, I like them, I mean."

Despite his attempts at protesting, I bent over and wiped the stew off his cheek.

"What kind of dreams?"

"I don't know... what kind of? Like, this last time I saw a forest, and there were the shadows in a shape of a huge church. Do you think it's a good dream?"

"Well, must be. If there's a church."

"Is any dream with a church good?"

Vaccilating for a moment between finishing my cup of mint and cleaning the table, I grabbed the plates decisively and walked over to the basin full of greyish stagnant water. Even though it wasn't late yet, I found myself craving for sleep, and I had to stifle a yawn as I started to wash the plates mechanically.

"N-no... I suppose not. See, Innes, a dream is good if you feel so. It is bad if you feel that it's bad. There's no other criterion."

"There's no other what?"

"Criterion. It means the way to decide. Did you feel good when you dreamt of that forest church of yours?"

"Oh, yes!"

"It was good then. Are you sleepy yet?.. No? Fine, you can stay. Just wake me up if you need something."

Innes pouted.

"No, I'm going with you. It's no fun to stay awake if you're alone."

Smiling, I pulled him by the hand and towards the stairs. The sleepiness was making me stumble over the steps, but he was like a small boat tugging "The Fighting Temeraire" to her last berth, all energetic, jumping upwards as easily as he would be running downhill.

"The flag which braved the battle and the breeze no longer owns her," I murmured.

"How can a flag own anybody? C'mon, Martha, you're rambling."

"Ay, perhaps I am."

xxx

When I came to classes the other day, Bell was not in the University at all. I languished throughout all the lectures, barely hearing the teachers' remarks, and got a reprimand from Doctor Monroe, which was something very much unheard of.

"I say," I found myself caught by the hand by Moorcock, "what the devil is wrong with you, Doyle? You seem to be perfectly lost."

"I... kind of am," said I, smiling somewhat insincerely, "don't know what the matter is, really... Perhaps I haven't slept as much as I should have."

His expression softened, and I felt a stab of guilt. Deceiving him felt almost as wrong as deceiving Innes, though perhaps for different reasons.

"Ah, but that's perfectly normal," he patted me on the shoulder good-humouredly, "always happens to us students."

Why did she need to vanish on such a day? Why _did_ she vanish? Surely nothing inconvenient could've happened to her, she was too superhuman for that. But nobody in the University knew anything, and I felt my anxiety growing like an ugly shrub of some poisonous weed.

To visit her personally seemed an unthinkable impudence – these things were simply not done, and that would explain why I didn't take any steps that day or the day after that. However, after two days of silence even I saw that there was no other way but to go to her house, which I did; with the most extraordinary consequences, but that's another story.

There were many things worth noticing on the first floor of Bell's flat, but I'm afraid I failed to do it. What I remember is the omnipresent smell of mint oil and a giant clock dial of stunning green. Made of glass not unlike the one used to decorate church windows, it hung from the stairs, looking at the visitors steadily, as though a blind unblinking eye. Perhaps it was supposed to remind everyone of the flow of time – if yes, it served the purpose perfectly, being one of the most ominous material objects I'd seen in my life.

Breathlessly I flew towards it, almost choking on that green and mint. Everything was very quiet. If I was worth anything as a medical student and Bell's clerk, that was a house of an ill person – worse, it looked sick itself.

At this point I was worried beyond belief, but I still hesitated a little before walking upstairs – and hesitated some more in front of the door. Of course I should've at least knocked, but some wild mood took over me, and I was simply standing there like a scared kitten, straining my ears hard to catch any sound that might emerge from the room. But it was deadly silent, and that was what eventually frightened me into entering.

She lay there on a low bed, curled up against the wall, and she was clearly in a bad way. Forgetting my doubts, I uttered a cry and darted towards her; and I was quite beside myself when I was feeling her pulse and then simply holding her wrists fearfully, calling her name.

Her eyes suddenly flew wide open, and I felt alarm strike through every vein in her body when she dashed aside from me, clutching at the bed sheets. Then relief reflected on her face; she blinked and relaxed slightly. Yet I noticed with deep unease that there was still something frantic in the gaze of her china blue eyes, and I knew then that it must've been fever.

"Ah... Doyle. Glad to see you. I'm afraid I owe you an apology. Though I've indeed done everything needed in this case so far, I failed to inform you about it. My state, you see, leaves much to be desired." And she smiled rather hesitantly, embracing one of her knees with both arms. This gesture seemed to twist something in my chest; for she was awfully pale, and there was a kind of copper-coloured flush on her dryly outlined cheekbones. In dismay I caught the deadly white fingers, trembling unstoppably.

"Bell! Didn't you call anyone from the University? Any doctor at all?"

Apparently she was becoming cold, since she pulled the sheet onto herself in an awkward gesture. Her silvery hair was a mess, and, if not for the thickness, they would've resembled the hairdo of Doctor Monroe.

"No," responded she faintly, "how could I? That would mean enlightening him on the matter of my sex. Not the best idea, really."

"Is this more important than your survival?"

There were tears in my eyes; but at the moment I hardly cared. Dropping her head in exhaustion, Bell regarded me with a brief look then suddenly flinched and looked at me again. The firm line of her mouth distinctly weakened, and the expression was now that of bewildered and almost plaintive softness.

"Oh," with hesitation the Doctor reached out towards my head, "Don't. I'll be just fine, upon my honour."

"You will, I suppose, now that I'm here. Why didn't you call me? Surely you could trust me?"

I sniffed, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. I wasn't crying, not exactly, but tears were running down my cheeks, tickling my cheekbones rather to my annoyance. That was what I hated about crying – that tickling feeling.

"Why, I knew you would come, if only because you're a future doctor, and I didn't want you to. You have the University and your job; I have mine. It would be awfully inconvenient for me to be a cause of your downfall."

She slid back into a more or less horizontal position, encircling my wrist with her warm fingers.

"It's acute tonsillitis." Her voice was sleepy. "Only re- Doyle?"

Despite my efforts at wiping the tears away, it was obvious that this wasn't going to stop soon, what with her talking like that. Through the blur I could make out an oddly distorted cupboard and a copper basin with some water on the bottom. The room was dusky, much like the hall downstairs; it seemed that Bell was indeed a nightly creature.

"Martha?"

"Sorry," I uttered an odd moaning sob, "it is just so terrible. As if we're-as if we're criminals, so we don't deserve help, don't deserve respect, don't deserve love, as if we've done something wrong-"

"-well, we sort of are. We did break the law just about a hundred times."

Clenching my fists, I lifted myself on my elbows and crawled closer to her.

"You don't deserve it," murmured I feverishly. "It's miserable. The laws are stupid! We're in no way worse than others, you are worth a dozen of ones like Macaulay-"

But my voice broke, and I was forced to look away, loudly inhaling the dusty mint of the cold air. Tears of fury were suffocating me.

I felt her mournful gaze upon me, and yet she didn't move or speak for some time; after half a minute, when I started calming down, she sighed quietly.

"I wish I didn't know what you mean. I swear to God, I wish I didn't..."

Her head fell on the pillow, and when I looked up at her, her eyes were shut. The flush seemed to get worse; now the copper was highlighted with flaming red, and the colour spread over from the mandibula onto os zygomaticum and further, to maxilla. Really I could trace all the cranial bones on her skull; apart from os lacrimale, of course, the bone of tears.

"Listen," she whispered, "I made inquiries. There are these two students who failed the exams a year ago. One is a redhead. Found the cabbie who had been to Inglewood last week. He's not sure but says that it's likely our man."

Holding her hand, I listened to her anxiously; her voice, though, kept trailing off, and there was something moony about the way her gaze was wandering, occasionally focusing on my face.

"That's sheer lunacy," said I quietly, feeling my own face and lips ignite with something not unlike fever. "I can't leave you like this. You can't possibly expect me-"

"Just a day. Won't take long, promise. Yes, the redhead... The curious detail is that there is a deficit of copper sulphate in the _University_ stock. Which is odd, really. It seems the hardest way to get the emetic... I don't like to use it, too many side effects, so I didn't discover the loss until now. But it is all circumstantial evidence. The only thing there really is against him is Jimmy's testimonial."

She gave a deep tremulous sigh and shifted. At the point it became quite clear that our relatively coherent conversation before that was only due to a feverish outburst of energy on her part; now she was sliding back into turbid haze inexorably, and it drove me mad that I could do nothing but watch her suffer. I knew very well that there would be delirium later on – and I knew that there were few things worse than being delirious while being alone. Besides, Bell's house was really not the cosiest place in Edinburgh, and in illness of this sort all the things and shadows are one big phantom danger with innumerable faces. The clock alone was perfectly capable of plunging a more faint-hearted patient into the darkest horror. And I could only imagine what ugly role would be attributed to the scent of mint: no, but I _could_ imagine, and images in my head were all too vivid to my liking.

"...what was I talking about? Jimmy? Sweet Lord, I'm rambling. Not good. Yes, and I thought that he'd like to kill Jimmy, since the prospect of extinguishing the University staff didn't exactly scare him. But the death must seem natural; perhaps he'll drown him, yes, it's a good idea. There's a river near Inglewood. There are always rivers near villages. I kept an eye on the Freckle lad, that is, until I got unwell... then decided to speed the events up, told somebody who'd tell him, a godawful fellow, believe me, Doyle. He'll be in the village today. I mean the Redhead. Can't let him finish the business." There was a pause, and I heard with painful clarity her torn, ragged breath. Suddenly she chuckled dryly: "You see, I could hardly believe it, but I managed to make the police interested in the matter. A couple of old acquaintances on the station... But they don't take it seriously, they can't believe somebody would want to murder a little guttersnipe. Or, worse, they can but don't care. Rather suspect it's the latter."

"Are they going there? Why do you need me to leave you?"

"You'll be more attentive," the Doctor stated simply. "As far as I could see, you do not do this "grain of salt" thing when there's a murder concerned. Good for an investigator. I'm afraid I'm not the best example, but, you see, there must be a heart apart from the brain... emotions. Crimes are committed by people. Solved by people. People are emotional. Can't investigate if there's no emotional investment."

Suddenly she was looking at me once more as though I said something extraordinary, although indeed I remained quite silent. Bell blinked slowly; a realization had clearly dawned upon her, but I could only be guessing as to its nature.

"It is all very well, Doyle," and her voice was oddly sober, "but I've never asked you if you agreed to work with me in – in this sense. Not a part of yer job description, now is it?"

I shook my head, smiling at her tremulously.

"No. No, it isn't. But I do agree."

"...good."

It wasn't exactly appropriate for me to be clutching at her wrists as I was, but I suppose it wasn't her primary concern at the moment - it is a horrible feeling when your blood is full of fire, when every heartbeat is the tenth wave in the incessant drunken storm; physical sensations are of no matter then.

"So you shall go to the police station and ask for Sergeant Sinclair. A giant bear-like fellow with odd eyes. He's departing to Inglewood at midday." She became thoughtful for a moment. "Ah, and Doyle..."

Turning to her coat that lay on the windowsill, she searched hastily through the pockets and produced a black leathery notebook, a pencil and a couple of shiny shillings.

My attempt at refusing to take the money failed miserably: disregarding my protests, the Doctor shoved the coins into my hands and began to scribble something in the notebook. The movements of her fingers were slightly sharper than usual; I saw how her cheekbones flushed with the effort of concentration. It was not the writing itself that required effort, I knew, but the necessity to make up a coherent and terse message.

"Sinclair?" asked I. "Why, that sounds French."

"A Scottish clan, came from French Normandy. Here," in the same awkward manner she tore the page out and gave to me. I sighed and stood up; it turned out that all my limbs had gone numb, what with the kneeling posture I adopted for the last half an hour. Now that I was standing I saw behind her back, in the window, the blue sky lapping high up like a thousand of satin curtains.

"I'll be back in the evening. Isn't it too cold here for a patient with tonsillitis?"

"No, it's an illusion. This smell of mint makes you feel as though it's cold. Besides, I have a scarf," and she waved at me with something ridiculously big, fluffy and colourful. I stared at the thing in a slight daze. Certainly I'd never thought that the Doctor could be in possession of something like that. "And that ointment I treated your ankle with. But wait, Doyle! I think I have something for you..."

With these words Bell dipped her hand under the pillow, and I saw with surprise that she was offering me my _Manon Lescaut_.

"Forgot to give it back to you, sorry. Really you can be an absent-minded lass."

xxx

I walked out of her house, carefully closing the door behind me. The streets were full of fresh wind, and when I lifted my head, I could see the flocks of ash flakes – the jackdaws were coming back from the South. I ran down the stairs, stopped, and, before continuing towards the city centre, unfolded her note to Sinclair.

In the middle, just after the words "...this is Arthur Doyle, my colleague, and he is to be rendered every assistance", the "e" in the "assistance" flowed neatly into the word "mint", which was, however, carefully crossed out.

xxx

Indeed Niall Sinclair bodily approximated to a cube – or rather, to a parallelepiped, since he was after all elongated vertically. He seemed to be a perfect choice for holding a criminal and beating him up, although I was not so sure about the "catching" part. My legs, I thought skeptically, were perhaps better fit for all the running.

And Bell didn't lie about his eyes – these were truly stunning. They were yellow, like the finest gooseberries or even cloudberries. He looked at the world from under heavy eyebrows, and there was something very calm and thoughtful in his expression (or shall I say his lack of expression?), something that people usually see in animals.

I was, I'm embarrassed to admit, staring. But he didn't seem to pay any attention; and I was not sure if I would be able to disturb him in any way even if I wanted to.

"Hullo, lad," he said slowly, his fat lips twisting into a dreamy smile. With some trepidation I gave him Bell's note, which he studied not without curiosity. "Ye're Arthur Doyle then. Joe told me about ye."

"…Did he?"

"Ay, though not a lot really. But he's not a very talkative fellow, is he now?" (I could only shake my head dumbly, meaning to confirm that no, no, he's not) "Says ye are good. Do ye ken whit's he doing now? I haven't heard from him in two days."

"No," I replied after a pause, suddenly sick to my soul with a fit of self-loathing. It was awful to lie like that; for by keeping the truth about Bell's condition to myself I was accepting the responsibility for her fate, something that I felt neither right nor safe. And yet to tell anybody of it meant to betray her, and that I couldn't do, never. Sinclair studied me with benevolent curiosity, and I looked downcast, only wishing I could wash that film of bitter herbal grease from my mouth.

"Nay, ye don't. But it's eleven o'clock already; let's go, laddie. We must hurry to be in Inglewood before midday. Bell is going to be none too pleased if we're late."

I bit my tongue to stop myself from trying to persuade him that it was not about the whims of the Doctor's and that there was a real human life at stake. That would be no good. After all, that was precisely why I was there; and I intended to be as good as my word, for Bell relied on me, and Jimmy's survival depended on my wit and my instinct.

That time the idea of reading didn't even occur to me. It would be far too uncomfortable to read in Sinclair's company (especially as that was something I generally preferred to do alone or with somebody I knew at least casually), and I couldn't quite tear myself from studying his demeanour and his expressions; it was truly a wonder to me back then how Bell contrived to befriend all sorts of odd people, the Sergeant being one of the most notable examples. "Joe", that was what he called her. It was stunningly unceremonious, especially considering the sheer breadth of the social abyss that separated them. I think now that my relationship with the Doctor first made me grasp the idea that this abyss could be narrower than the majority of us thought – that in many cases it could be purely imaginary.

To my dismay, though, Sinclair appeared to have no aptitude for embarrassment. Apparently he considered it polite to look at me as long as I looked at him; and for that half an hour when I was contemplating his face, he stared at me back with his inscrutable cloudberry eyes, unblinking. Finally I discovered that I could not bear it any longer and was forced to look in the window instead. Happen somebody ride with us in that cab, he would probably decide that we were lovers.

The landscape outside was familiar. It was not sunny this time, and the pinewoods and the cornfields looked rather bleak. The soil, however, was still mortally dry, and I saw clouds of dust and sand spread from under the wheels of the cab as though two great wings.

"Too many pines," I murmured, smiling faintly. Sinclair regarded me with a look of liveliest interest but said nothing.

I knew where to go, and so I was walking confidently in front of him, not paying much attention to the surroundings. My thoughts were already concentrated on the choice of the strategy; besides, in the back of my mind there was constant concern for Bell. It wasn't good, it was distracting me from the task at hand, but how could I not worry when I left her, severely ill, alone with no medical help?

Sinclair, in his turn, studied Inglewood as though he was a general considering setting up a camp for night. Much to my irritation, he didn't seem to be even remotely agitated; instead he took out a short clay pipe and started smoking it with the most amiable expression. I felt a strong smell of cherry tobacco.

I reasoned that it was unwise to let Jimmy remain in the house waiting for the Redhead to come. The only exit, apart from the front door, was the one leading into the backyard; and there he would find no protection (unless, of course, his old man bred a special sort of fighting chickens). Despite finding Bell's drowning scenario believable, I was not willing to risk it if the Redhead happened to prefer a firearm.

"Mister Sinclair?"

He uttered an ambiguous sound.

"I think it is perhaps better to take Jim with us. Don't want him trapped as a living lure."

"Whatever ye say, laddie. But you should do it yerself: he doesn't know me and won't be too eager to obey my orders."

That was fair enough, and reluctantly I turned to Inglewood, leaving Sinclair behind.

The lime layer on the floor seemed to get thicker, and the dog wheezed at me even more violently, perhaps sensing the absence of any real authority. Was it because of the murky weather or because of my nervousness, I felt as though it was colder and the blue shadows, long and eerie, entangled with the scant furniture, suffocating the house.

"Jim!" called I. There was nothing but silence, and for one mad moment I imagined that we were late; however, eventually the back door opened, and the boy stared at me with surprise, curling the toes of his bare feet. Apparently my expression didn't dispose to smiling, because he remained very serious – only his mud-grey eyes widened some more, making him resemble a frog.

I squatted down in front of him, much like Bell did with Olivia Gemly.

"You must go with me."

He contemplated me for a moment then shook his head.

"But I can't go without Vick."

That was really uncalled for; I knew instantly that I could not let his old man become aware of my presence. The only chance of trapping the Redhead was in allowing him to start a conversation, and this would not last for long if he'd realize what we were up to.

"No, no, you really must," against my will there were plaintive notes in my voice, "it's not for long, I promise."

And I couldn't tell him why, because he'd probably want to stay and protect his beloved Vick. Great.

Jim stared at me some more then grinned slightly.

"You do sound like a lass, y'know."

I cursed. To myself, of course.

Not only he was a redhead (which I could see clearly in the shine of sunbeams that made his hair look as if it caught fire), but he was of the same height and build. To make out his facial features against the ignescent sky seemed a hopeless task, and I stifled my agitation, waiting for him to come closer. Just as Jimmy told the Doctor, he wore a chequered pelerine of brownish colour and a long green coat – they use these in military a lot. Judging by his proportions, though, he was too young for active service – certainly no older than me.

Now he was walking slowly down the road, only ten or fifteen metres away from us – I was starting to fear that he would notice our presence (that he would notice Sinclair, that is. Even though we clung fast to the raspberry bushes, the figure of the Sergeant remained one of the most notable elements of the landscape).

Fortunately, he seemed way too absorbed in his thoughts to pay attention to his surroundings. His face was still submerged in bluish deep shadows, but I could now see how the sun shone through his big ears, making them bashfully crimson.

No, he was really quite young.

In front of the clay house he stopped, turned to it and after some moments of hesitation walked straight to the door. My heart, it seemed, was going to explode; I could see nothing but his figure, and sudden heat rushed through my veins like finest rum.

Of course I knew that to run after him would be unwise, and yet I could barely restrain myself from doing so as I saw him enter the house. Being anxious to save Jimmy, I absolutely forgot about the old MacBride; and I had not a faintest idea as to the Redhead's plans regarding his fate. Now I realised my mistake with painful clarity, but there was nothing I could do.

Jimmy let out a cry of worry, and I flinched with fear that we would be heard.

"Hold him, Sinclair," I urged sternly, and the Sergeant obeyed without a word. My rudeness towards both him and the boy was, of course, unparalleled, but I must admit that then I thought nothing of it. My only concern was what was going inside the house.

I don't know if I truly heard that shout or it was produced by my fevered imagination, but it was a trigger that sent me straight into action. Forgetting all about strategy and reason, I snatched the gun from Sinclair's belt and rushed forward; and only afterwards did I come to appreciate the fact that he kept silent and did not panic – he was, after all, a very fine policeman. Bell knew how to pick useful acquaintances.

Beside myself, I threw the white rickety door open and jerked the revolver up. My hands were trembling; then I saw the Redhead right in front of me, apparently, in the middle of tying the old man to a chair.

I felt a stab of pain in my temples, and my forehead was damp with sweat, although it was by no means hot even now that the sun came out of the clouds.

"Moorcock," I called in a shaking voice. He stood motionless. "Moorcock, damn you! Hands up, turn to me!"

Then he turned very slowly and carefully, and there was amazement written on his expressive large-mouthed face.

"How did you know that was my name?.."

xxx

As much as I wanted to meet Stuart Moorcock myself, I had not a thought of going anywhere but back to Bell. Indeed now that _the case_ was over I found myself numb with worry for her, and my dark mood was only worsened by the mortifying knowledge of Moorcock's betrayal. For I did not doubt that he gave the emetic to his cousin, Iagan Moorcock, and that he was guilty of complicity; it all fitted together too neatly for my theory to be untrue.

Still I felt that Stuart deserved being informed by me myself, not arrested by Sinclair, and I would've gone and talked to him if I didn't have to return to the Doctor. As it is, I simply told Sinclair everything I knew and parted with him in a darkest depression. Back then I fully believed that it was the end of it and that I'd lost the only friend I had in the University (Bell hardly qualified as a "friend" – our positions were too different for this. If anything, I'd only dare say that she was my mentor), lost in a way I'd never imagined possible, not to death or illness but to foul disgrace.

But I forgot that altogether when I saw her, still spread on the blankets and deeply asleep. She was white as a sheet, any hint of pink vanished from her hollow cheeks; it likely meant that the crisis had passed, but I was so troubled by her lifelessness that I didn't feel relief. She was limp as a puppet with its threads cut, and God knows no living human flesh should be as cold as hers was when I took her hand.

Inwardly I already decided that I could not risk her life – I would've called a doctor if there was any danger of her condition worsening, no matter the consequences. After all, she could leave Edinburgh and change the name. Awful no doubt, and she would probably never forgive me, but it was still better than letting her die in my arms.

As of yet, there was no change for worse. I myself could do little; so I just gave her some water (half of which ended up on the blankets, since she was completely unresponsive) mixed with rosehip and curled up beside her bed, staring at her face. Her heart rate was still within the normal limits, and I was fairly doubtless that she would successfully recover in a matter of weeks. For an elderly female Bell had a surprisingly strong constitution.

It bothered me, though, that it was getting colder. The wind outside was wild, and it blew through the chinks in the window, washing away the minty scent and replacing it with the bitter factory smoke. Certainly the room downstairs was a much better place for a recovering patient; I made a mental note to make Bell move there once she would be able to walk. For now I settled on covering her with her coat in addition to the blankets – the colourful scarf was already tied around her neck.

Then it occurred to me that perhaps it would be a good idea to use that heating ointment of hers. I studied the silvery tin with some curiosity (where did she get these? It looked strange, I'd never seen anything like it in the shops) and carefully pushed the blankets and the coat aside, uncovering her chest. It rather resembled a ship frame, of a frigate or even a schooner, what with the ribs that could be clearly traced through the fine skin. It was obvious from the look of the flaccid but neat breasts and the dark, almost brown cherry nipples that she'd never nursed a child; and I felt my heart clench with the sheer realization of how alone she must've been ever since her parents passed away, with no family and under a false identity.

What I didn't realize back then was that she was a much happier and less troubled person than I would've been if I was in her situation. And yet even after I learnt that it never stopped me from feeling inexplicably sad whenever I contemplated her life, except that now I had no reasonable explanation for my sentiment.

I hurriedly applied the ointment to my hands, afraid to chill her in, and started rubbing her chest and collarbones. The astringent smell of pepper and honey tickled my nostrils; my fingers felt pleasantly hot, and I was satisfied to sense her skin warming up as well.

"Doyle," she murmured faintly without opening her eyes. I didn't stop for a moment, just looked up at her and returned the blankets in their place.

"Don't talk," and I pressed a finger to my lips, which proved to be a terrible mistake, because I immediately felt as though my mouth was bee-stung. The Doctor smiled upon hearing me moan.

"Cool it with the water."

"Mm." I was cradling the cup in my hands, quite sure that the next two or three days I would spend with my lips resembling those of a pickaninny.

"Happens when one applies pepper to his lips. You should be grateful it was not the mucous membrane."

"For God's sake, Doctor, stop talking."

"Only if you tell me about the Inglewood affair."

I lost my good spirits immediately. Putting the cup aside, I regarded her with a gloomy look.

"It was Moorcock."

Bell's head was now tilted so that she could see my face, but I could make out nothing but dispassionate attention in her eyes.

"Reasons?"

"The man arrested in Inglewood is Iagan Moorcock, he's Stuart's cousin. I... he mentioned Stuart while we were escorting him back to Edinburgh. Something along the lines of not wanting him to sink as well. I didn't talk to Iagan much, but I think there's only one solution to this puzzle, what with Moorcock being a student in the University."

It was already dark outside; in the spring, the evening twilight came surprisingly early. This time it was not just the hour, though – there were thunderclouds in the sky, and I could see the weathercocks twitch, gleaming dimly with copper.

"Perhaps you're doing Stuart an injustice," ruminated the Doctor.

My heart jumped wildly, but I was not ready to give in to the temptation and believe her. That was not a matter of belief, that was a matter of reason; and reason told me that Stuart Moorcock was guilty.

"How so?"

"You're right that he probably gave the emetic to his cousin, but I do not think that he did it with the knowledge of Iagan's plans. There might've been a deception of some sort. My opinion is that it was the case; but we'll know it with greater certainty when we hear what Moorcock brothers have to say about the matter."

I'm afraid I forgot my medical duties entirely, for I did not interrupt her and did not urge her to keep silent and rest. On the contrary, I listened to her with bated breath; and she herself seemed animated, her eyes glittering with something not unlike excitement.

"I've told you before that emotions are as important in our profession as the cold logic. Pray do not dismiss them, Doyle: intuition often gives you the direction which can only be specified by the arguments of reason and observation."

She paused, staring at me for such a long time that I felt uneasy.

"...but I must say that you should learn some discipline. This time you've done well, and yet it was only a stroke of luck that Iagan didn't kill you or Vick."

Finally I came to my senses and demanded that she stopped conversing with me – although I cannot say that I wasn't secretly pleased with her praise, even that small and combined with reproach.

Bell nodded, falling silent, and turned away. Now she was staring at the ceiling with some odd curiosity.

"Doyle," whispered she after some pause, "you should go home or, if you find it hard to wait until tomorrow, to Moorcock. Really it's a bad idea to spend a night sitting here."

I choked with indignation.

"Doctor! How can you-"

"-think of your family," Bell waved off my violent protests, "your mother is going to imagine that something happened to you. You have no way of informing them that you're here. And I'm really not that bad anymore."

"That's ridiculous-"

"-do you trust me as a physician?"

Now I was quite at a loss. It was a logical paradox; if I said yes, it would've meant that I needed to obey her demand; "no" would've been, first, untrue, and second, an insult.

"Do you really need to ask," I grumbled without an inquiring intonation.

"Good. Then you should take my word that I'll be fine if you leave."

"I was afraid you'd say that."

The Doctor sighed and curled up under the blankets, breathing steadily and infrequently.

"Go, Doyle."

Reluctantly I stood up; but I couldn't refrain from checking her pulse once again. Luckily, or perhaps sadly, it was perfectly normal this time.

"Goodbye then," I said with hesitation. Her hair was glowing with paleness in the room full of cold thunderstorm dusk, and that was the only visible part of her body: everything else was covered with the blankets. She looked much like a child afraid of lightning.

"Goodbye," agreed Bell in a sleepy voice. "Ah, wait. Forgot to thank you. 'm really lucky to have you for a clerk, y'know? Obviously I'm not saying this because of your sex."

I blushed with joy and surprise.

"I'm glad to be of service, Doctor."

xxx

When I ran out into the street, I was as full of happiness and confusion as I was depressed before meeting Bell. Now I had hope that Moorcock was innocent after all (or at least not guilty of murder), and I was quite sure that the Doctor herself was going to be all right, and I was going to be her clerk and work with her and _be_ with her; it was something I wouldn't dare wish a week ago. Moreover, she seemed to like me. I'm afraid I don't have words for describing how ridiculously pleased I was with that.

xxx

Iagan came to him, said Stuart, and begged him in tears to get the copper sulphate from the University stock. He claimed that his mother was severely poisoned and that they did not have money for all the necessary medicine.

And he got it all right, poor silly Stuart Moorcock, only to endanger the University staff and kill Missis Meikle's beloved Bettie.

I've never told Stuart that I suspected him. First of all, it would mean to give away the nature of Bell's work and my cooperation with her; I did not feel that I had any right to do that (indeed my prudence proved quite farsighted during the Chantrelle case). And then I couldn't quite bring myself to say it to his face – I had every reason to believe that this would put our friendship to an end.

It was touching how he was recounting the events to me breathlessly, gesturing with his big freckled hands. I only had to make my expression match my alleged emotions – even though the main thing I felt was overwhelming guilt and embarrassment. Iagan described his captor in the finest detail, and I listened to this description, amazed at how oblivious Stuart was to the obvious fact that he was describing me. Really Bell with her theory of observations could teach him something. But then again, he was a good and honest-to-God fellow; it simply did not occur to him that I could be lying to him so shamelessly, that I could sit there pretending that I'd never known anything about the poisoning matter until he told me. I felt as though the Doctor's company corrupted me: I wasn't able to be pure and joyous anymore. Everywhere I saw a double bottom, in every human being I looked for a criminal and a scoundrel – even in those closest to me.

I stood up awkwardly and regarded him with a falsely wandering look.

"Um, my sympathies, Moorcock." I cleared my throat. "I'll be outside, all right?"

He gave me a broad smile.

"Ay, sure. But you know what, Doyle?.."

"What?"

"You really need to cut these chestnut locks of yours."

xxx

The first person I saw in the University yard was Bell. Admittedly, her look left me speechless; for she walked under the iridescent spring drizzle, waving playfully with her cane, and, apart from wearing a most incredible mauve shirt with lacy cuffs, carried a fluffy bouquet of violets.

I couldn't even be distressed by how quickly she was back to work – I was too busy staring.

Her eyes sparkled at my appearance.

"Doyle! Glad to see you. And before you start reproaching me that I'm up and about too soon: I didn't come to lecture."

"I... I think I guessed. In fact, I'd bet that you were asked to be somebody's best man."

"Sort of," and she made an odd flourish in the air, as if conducting an invisible choir. "I came to visit Bettie's grave."

"Bettie? Do you mean _the cat_?"

"Ay, absolutely. I think it will be of some consolation to Missis Meikle. Care to join?"

"I only have fifteen minutes of a break," I reminded.

"No matter. Won't take long."

Torn between laughter and, oddly enough, sadness, I walked over to her. The violets glowed with minute rainbows.

It was on the grave of Bettie the cat that I swore to fight that corruption, to never give in to the temptation of cold scepticism; for everything that was light and good was needed in the forensic work all the more, and everyone who thinks otherwise places himself on the edge of the dark abyss from which there is no escape, never.


End file.
